


On the Shoot

by Spindle



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Gun Kink, M/M, Missing Scene, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-19 09:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10636950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spindle/pseuds/Spindle
Summary: It might have been the machismo of a man dying for one last fair fight, or it might just have been that he was up to the ass in drink, but whatever the reason, Bucho finds Faraday’s peacemakers crammed into his own holsters, itching for their owner to come chasing.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/gifts).



It might have been the machismo of a man dying for one last fair fight, or it might just have been that he was up to the ass in drink, but whatever the reason, Bucho finds Faraday’s peacemakers crammed into his own holsters, itching for their owner to come chasing. Downstairs, the last supper is still roaring away gaily, hot as a whorehouse on nickel night. Upstairs, the actual whorehouse is making a merry trade. Bucho’s skin feels fit to burst—too much restless energy for one man to contain.

“Hey!”

At first he thinks it’s another delusional loverboy, thinking that an inch of bared skin was as good as a proposition, and then the darkness whites out in a burst of stars.

When he catches his breath, Faraday’s glowering at him barely an inch from his face, caged in against the bubbling wallpaper. “Where in God’s name did you put my guns, you four-flushing chiseler?” he grits out, all traces of humor gone.

Bucho grins, feeling the sweet anticipation of the first punch warm him to his toes. “Watch your mouth. You’re in the presence of a lady.”

Faraday snarls, “Listen here, _chingado_ —”

Drawing a gun’s more muscle memory than instinct at this point, a straight line from his brain to the gun, his hand merely a conduit to bring the Colt Single Action to Faraday’s temple. Bucho makes a gentle shushing sound, letting the muzzle gently caress Faraday’s hairline. “Who was that gabbing about showing a lady respect? You _Yanquis_ are nothing but talk.”

Faraday backs up like a thoroughbred, responding beautifully to every nudge of the gun until Bucho’s got him braced against the door of an empty room, throat arching long and pale in the moonlight with the artillery revolver pressed under his jaw.

“You been planning that speech for a while?” says Faraday, his damn mouth still running. “Because if I recall, you were right there agr—”

Bucho leans in, feeling the hard body under him freeze. “Let’s try this again,” he whispers in the Americano’s ear, “Show me how you greet your wife.”

He slides Ethel up the side of Faraday’s face, feeling the steel rasp against coarse beard hair. There’s a sudden suck of breath, Faraday trembling under him when Bucho drags the muzzle over his lips, painting them like a lip brush. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up the pressure when he says, “Give us a kiss, _güero_.”

Faraday’s eyes, already shadowed in the dim light, darken even further.

There’s a flicker of pink tongue before Faraday sucks case-hardened steel into his mouth, but it’s Bucho who has to groan under the heat of Faraday’s eyes never leaving his own. All that restless energy under his skin burns hotter, but for a different reason.

They’d been dancing around this point for weeks. He’d seen that look in a man’s eyes before, not as brothers but just as intense, ready to be strung up at dawn or...something else in the dark.

He lets the barrel sink past those clever lips, useful for a change. A gun’s an extension of a man’s arm, but this one’s practically flesh. He can almost feel sweet, hot flesh yielding as he pushes inside, all that soft, wet suction as he pulls out, Faraday hollowing his cheeks like he can’t bear to let him go. It’s almost hypnotic, watching spit-shiny steel slide against Faraday’s wet—

“—can’t wait to get you inside—” is all the warning Bucho gets before the doorknob turns. He slaps a hand against the wood, shoving with the reflexes of the startled. The door shudders under opposite forces trying to open and close it at the same time.

Or maybe it’s Faraday, gagging around the gun suddenly pressing into his throat as his hips buck up, his cock a long, hard line of steel against Bucho’s thigh.

The blood in Bucho’s ears roars as he presses closer, letting Faraday take shallow sips of air as he fucks his throat with his own gun, pressing a leg between Faraday’s so he can feel his hips twitch restlessly, digging his dick into Bucho’s hip. The smell of tobacco and leather grows stronger between them, Bucho yanking aside cotton and wool so he can feel those riding muscles shift under his palm.

He barely hears a woman’s voice titter nervously. “—distracted me so much I’ve plumb forgotten where my room is—”

“Drop your trousers,” Bucho growls, as the voices grow fainter. He needs to see, touch, _taste_.

Faraday just shudders, clutching at Bucho’s wrists with grips of steel even as the rest of him melts against the door.

It’s almost the summation of their relationship, Bucho thinks sourly as he tags at Faraday’s belt, hindered by the man’s white-knuckled grip. All friction and frustration. It’s so hard not to just shove him against the door and rock against him to completion, biting at the—

His hand closes on cold steel at the small of Faraday’s back.

“Why’d you—” Faraday’s voice sounds like gravel. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus, to harden. “Didn’t I say not to touch my guns?”

“Who’s this little woman?” says Bucho, feeling something hot like cane liquor pooling in his belly. Faraday had every opportunity to make this a standoff, and chooses instead to wilt against the door like a fainting maiden. For all the poison in his glare, Faraday makes no move to stop Bucho from pulling out a Webley Bulldog, the demure little pocket revolver fitting a little snug in his grip. “Is she your lady of the night?”

Faraday swallows and looks away for the first time.

“...’s my oldest gun,” says Faraday, finally. Bucho watches, fascinated, as the man struggles with his words for once. “Helped me through the war.”

Bucho squints at him. California hadn’t seen much of the war out east, except for recruitment flyers and secessionist plots, but it had been over for at least a dozen years. Fifteen years ago, had Faraday even been old enough to enlist?

Faraday rolls his eyes. “Someone had to take care of my maw while my pop was gone.”

“Lot of soldiers come through?” says Bucho, thinking of the Tejanos he’d met and their stories.

“Not after they knew what they were in for,” says Faraday, shivering as Bucho traces down his sternum with the Webley’s short muzzle. “Kept me warm most nights, j-just me and Vin.”

“Could make a girl jealous,” says Bucho, fighting a shiver himself at the sight of Faraday all dark-eyed and disheveled.

 “The girls don’t know about him,” says Faraday, softly. Bucho’s hand freezes just north of the hem of Faraday’s britches. The room is as dark as a confessional.

Faraday says, almost too soft to hear, “No one does.”

Bucho flounders for a reaction. Was he meant to hear? Is he reading too much into a few short words? There’s a tic jumping in Faraday’s clenched jaw, but the rest of him is as stiff as a brass weather vane, waiting to see which way the wind blows. Bucho has been with men who had wanted to pretend it was all out of their hands. He’s been with ones who wanted to treasure it in secret. The still air is cloying with musk and ambergris. Faraday’s eyes are blank shadows in the dark.

Bucho licks his lips and says, “Do you wish anyone to know?”

Wrong answer. The pocket revolver’s smacked out of his hand, luckily before he can accidentally shoot anyone. He has a moment to be thankful before his back hits the flimsy bed, the perfumed comforter tangling ridiculously around his legs.

He has a bit of a weight advantage against Faraday, but grappling’s never been his strong suit. His leg is pinned before he can kick, an arm barring his chest before he can twist, a leg kicking aside—

Faraday’s hip presses right up against his groin, and Bucho suddenly realizes exactly how hard he is. He can’t help the gasp that sticks in his throat, arching up involuntarily against all that lean, warm muscle pressing him down into the bed.

“Turn over,” growls Faraday, barely giving him enough room to move before he pins Bucho’s wrists against the down mattress. “Don’t move.”

Bucho can only press his forehead against the cool sheets and take deep lungfuls of air as his gun belt is manhandled off, followed by his riding breeches. This is happening. He twists his wrists trapped in one of Faraday’s hands just to feel them pressed harder together, almost to the point where the delicate bones creak.

“Cat got your tongue?” says Bucho, when the silence grows too long.

He hisses when something cold and oily drips down his crack. The air fills with the smell of gun oil.

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation,” says Faraday quietly, as something cold presses against his hole. Bucho’s heart nearly stops. “When a man says don’t touch his guns, he means don’t touch his guns.”

The pressure doesn’t let up, human muscle no match for relentless steel. Faraday says, cold as his gun, “Now, give us a kiss, asshole.”

It’s the Webley, it has to be the Webley. Bucho can’t even imagine the damage the Colt would cause even with gun oil slicking the way. Even so, the pocket revolver feels like a rifle, stretching him with a rigidity like no living flesh. He refuses to give the damn _Yanqui_ the satisfaction of a whimper, gritting his teeth against the cold, harsh slide.

“That wasn’t very funny,” says Bucho, as soon as he’s sure his voice isn’t going to betray him.

“You’re right, it was goddamn hilarious,” says Faraday, pulling out a fraction of an inch before pushing in harder. The ejector rod jams into the spot behind his balls, lightening something up inside that makes his toes curl in his boots. “How do you like my gun?”

“Little small,” grits Bucho, “Can’t even tell you’re packing.”

“ _Cabrón_ , I could shoot you a new asshole with this thing,” snaps Faraday, and Bucho pushes back helplessly, his entire spine lighting up.

Faraday drapes himself over Bucho, rocking his gun harder to meet the snap of his hips. Faraday pants, “You like that, you sick son of a bitch?”

He can’t help it. Guns have always gotten him hot. The smell of spent gunpowder, the weight of them slapping against his hip, the warm steel alive in his hands. He's willing to bet he's not the only one. “You want to do something about it?”

Faraday groans as his hips grind against Bucho’s ass. He can feel the hard line of Faraday’s cock even through his thick riding wool. And it’s something in the thrill of it, Faraday’s hot breath puffing against his neck, the need drawing up his balls, the fact that he doesn’t know if there are bullets in the gun—Bucho’s mouth says, without any input from his brain, “I bet I can last longer than you.”

“No bet,” says Faraday, and Bucho nearly whines. “Because I’d win.”

Bucho’s being ridden into the mattress, his cock grinding into the sheets. He’s not going to last long. “You’re just scared.”

“Am not,” says Faraday, groaning into Bucho’s hair. “But it’s kind of disturbing you’re not.”

It doesn't matter what's coming out of his mouth—the proof is in the way every breath of Faraday's shades into a moan, his hard cock riding almost desperately against Bucho's leg. Bucho tries to twist his hips away from the bed to last longer, only to press the muzzle deeper into himself, both of them shuddering. He pants, “Give it up. _Sé lo que quieres_.”

Faraday’s hips buck against the back of Bucho’s thighs, his breath whooshing out as he shudders apart.

But it’s not the gun lodging just right inside that makes Bucho come, or Faraday’s heavy weight grinding his cock into the bed. It’s the press of lips on the back of Bucho’s neck, hot breath ghosting over the fine hairs there. His balls draw up so hard it hurts, come shooting up his chest, drenching his shirt, hot pleasure flooding through him. His eyeballs are still tingling when Faraday finally climbs off him, making noises about gun oil where it shouldn’t be.

Cleanup is done in near-silence, eyes averted as they do a mutual walk of shame.

Until Bucho nudges the twitchy blond. “Looks like I won the bet.”

Faraday shoves him down the stairs, but catches his elbow before he can fall. None of the few determined townsfolk still slouched over their whiskey look up as Bucho pinches his ass, as close as he dares.


End file.
